


To Wake a Sleeping Dragon

by starbursts_and_kisses



Series: Fly Me to the Moon [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragons, F/M, Fluff, Marriage Talks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:04:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbursts_and_kisses/pseuds/starbursts_and_kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a truth universally acknowledged that a prince in possession of a dragon must be in want of a warrior bride. </p><p>Also known as the sequel to "The Dragon and the Maiden Fair".</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Wake a Sleeping Dragon

For a moment, he hangs there, suspended in midair, his pale face tilted to the heavens. Above him there is nothing but sky and stone – an endless view that stretches on for what seems like miles– and even though he has seen this sight a thousand times before, it never gets old. Up here it is a completely different world. There is only the wind in his air, the sharp taste of freedom in his lungs, and the silence – the blessed, precious silence – that is only interrupted by the occasional cawing of the crows overhead. 

Somewhere down there in the real world, he could almost imagine Maester Luwin calling his name, desperately imploring him to come back and finish his lessons. If word reaches his lady mother that he is missing again, she would no doubt think of a heinous punishment the likes of which Bran has never seen before. The thought of Lady Catelyn locking him up in his room and forbidding him the luxury of practicing his archery and swordplay for days, the way she had done to Arya when she found her shoveling mud down Elmar Frey’s clothes a few days ago, makes him shudder. But Bran has had enough of history and language lessons for one day, and with Arya indisposed, Rickon in a foul temper, Jon at the Wall, and Robb busy with whatever firstborn son duties his father saw fit for him to perform, he finds himself in need of a good distraction. 

So Bran hums under his breath, banishes all thoughts of Maester Luwin and his poor sister locked up in her room with no one but Sansa and Septa Mordane for company, and resumes his climb. With nimble hands, he reaches for the narrow ledge above him and swings his body upwards until his toes find solid ground, and even though his muscles ache and his chest hurts from the effort, he does not stop. 

To him, climbing is as easy and as essential as breathing, so in no time at all, he reaches the narrow ridge atop Winterfell’s highest tower, and is rewarded with the breathtaking view of the entire castle grounds. Bran grins, finds a portion of the tower wide enough to sit on, and sighs happily. 

But before he could begin to enjoy his victory, he hears a strange noise. He frowns. It sounds uncannily like the flapping of wings, but in all his years of climbing and lurking on top of rooftops and castle towers, he has never heard of a bird capable of emitting this kind of noise before. With a feeling of unexplained dread, Bran cranes his neck in the opposite direction, shields his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun, and in a matter of seconds, he sees it. 

His mouth drops open, his face a perfect picture of shock, and all of a sudden, he loses his grip on the ridge. As he stares at the terrifying creature slowly materializing from the skies, a distant part of his mind registers the fact that he is falling, and with just enough presence of mind, Bran reaches out and grabs for a tiny protrusion in the stone wall. With shaking fingers, he begins climbing again and does not stop until he reaches the top. 

Bran gasps, closes his eyes, and almost sobs with relief and terror. That was too close for comfort. One moment more and he could have died. He had been climbing since he was old enough to walk, and never, never in all those years, did he lose his grip and almost fall. Until now.

 

* * *

 

Sansa’s stitches are perfect again. With an irritated sigh, Arya tosses her own handiwork in the air, where it lands in the middle of the fireplace and abruptly bursts into flames. 

As if on cue, Septa Mordane shrieks, a sound so high-pitched Arya half-expects all the windows in the castle to shatter, and stares at her diabolical ward with horror. “Lady Arya, what have you done?” she wails, looking at the ruined remains of her cloth as though she wants to salvage it from the flames. “You have being painstakingly working on that for hours!” 

“Yes, well, it looks horrid,” the irate young lady before her says by way of explanation. “And now that I think of it, it rather looks like something one of the servants would use to scrub the castle floors. A lady of my station can hardly be seen making such monstrous garments now, can I?” 

The old septa’s nostrils flare. “Oh, you beastly little lady! The Lady Catelyn will hear of this, mark my words!” And with that, Septa Mordane gathers her skirts, her face livid, and sweeps away from the room, no doubt making good on her promise to report Arya’s less-than-ladylike activities to her mother. 

Arya watches her go with immense satisfaction and grins wolfishly at her sister. “There now. Doesn’t the room feel so much better now that that vile old crone is gone at last?” she remarks pleasantly, appearing unbothered when Sansa, who is sitting next to her looking like the very image of grace and perfection, gives her a withering glare in response. 

“Must you always be this difficult, Arya? Would it pain you to behave like a civilized human being just for once?” Sansa scolds her, her lips drawn into a disapproving line. “Believe it or not, Septa Mordane – bless her soul – just wants to help you become a proper lady, a task that even I find to be quite hopeless.” 

Arya grits her teeth and tries hard to control her temper. Sansa sounds so much like their mother in that moment that she is half-tempted to throw one of her pillows at her. But she has already made one enemy today, and if Sansa leaves the room next, she would surely die from boredom. Once again, she thinks of how unfair the whole situation is. To keep her confined in her room without even the comfort of her sword and beloved breeches is too cruel a punishment, and one she feels she does not deserve. 

 _It wasn’t even my fault,_ she angrily tells herself. But Catelyn Stark had not listened to reason when Arya tried to explain to her, over and over again, that the only reason she saw fit to humiliate their stupid Frey guest was because he had made a lewd joke, something that had something to do with she-wolves in heat and dogs in the kennels, so as the only remaining Stark at that time, it had fallen to Arya to defend her family’s honor. 

“Arya, are you even listening to me?” Sansa shouts at her in annoyance. 

“Oh, of course,” Arya lies at once, her anger at Sansa forgotten. Then, sensing an opportunity to change the subject, and relishing the entertaining task of watching her sister squirm in discomfort, she smoothly asks, “By the way, Sansa, Jeyne Poole mentioned that you got a letter from Highgarden today. Who is it from? Is it from the gallant Willas Tyrell? Has he finally found the courage to write to you and ask for your hand?” 

As expected, Sansa’s face turns pink, the way it always does whenever the future Lord of Highgarden is mentioned. “N-no,” she stammers out, her normal composure shattering at the weight of Arya’s intrusive stare. “Me and Willas Tyrell? What nonsense are you saying, Arya? You were right that the letter came from Highgarden, but it was not Willas who wrote to me. It was Lady Margaery.” 

Arya raises an eyebrow at this remark and lets out a disappointed noise once she realizes that Sansa isn’t lying. “What does the bitch want?” she asks absently, her mind still on Sansa’s future marriage and the delightful possibility of scaring Willas Tyrell into staying faithful to her sister. 

“Don’t call her that. Margaery is a dear friend to me,” Sansa tells her disapprovingly. “As for the reason she wrote to me… Well, it appears that the king has once again rejected her father’s proposal to marry her off to Prince Aegon. They claimed that the crown prince is already betrothed, so they regretfully informed her that such a match cannot be made possible. They are, however, willing to offer her a match with Rhaegar’s brother, Prince Viserys. Naturally, Margaery was quite distressed.” 

“And can you blame her? Viserys is an abominable creature. Robb says he is good friends with Cersei and Stannis Baratheon’s son, Joffrey, which makes him even more contemptible in my eyes. If you really consider Margaery as your friend, perhaps you should ask her to disfigure herself or throw herself off a tower window before they make her marry such a man,” Arya supplies rather unhelpfully. 

Sansa shakes her head and glares at her sister. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she argues. “And anyway, that’s not the point. Margaery says the king refused to tell them the identity of Prince Aegon’s betrothed as well as what family she belongs to. Don’t you find that the least bit odd? It certainly can’t be a Lannister, since Myrcella Baratheon is already engaged to Trystane Martell, and it can’t be a Martell either, because Princess Arianne has made it quite clear that she does not intend to be queen so she can leave the succession of Dorne to her brother, and it most certainly can’t be an Arryn since the only Arryn of importance is a boy. Of course we can count ourselves out of the question, so if it isn’t a Tyrell either, then who can it be?” 

Arya sighs impatiently. “Oh, who cares about Prince Aegon and his bride? He can marry a cupbearer for all I care,” she complains. “Can we talk about something else now?” 

For some reason, Arya dislikes talking about the prince. It brings back awful memories of Sansa and Jeyne Poole mercilessly teasing her as a child for making up stories about playing with Prince Aegon during their brief stay at King’s Landing many years ago. And though she has the vague feeling that there is something else that she ought to remember, something important that has to do with him, the memory continues to elude her. 

Arya opens her mouth to issue a snarky reply, but is interrupted by the sudden and painfully loud opening of the door to her chambers. Bran stumbles inside, half-panting and half-collapsing on top of her bed, his face pale and his forehead dotted with sweat. 

“Bran?” Sansa exclaims, dropping her sewing needle in surprise. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here? If Mother finds you here, she would be wroth with you.” 

But it wasn’t their mother’s wrath Arya is concerned about. “Gods, what’s the matter, Bran? Has something happened?” she asks him sharply, pressing her palm to her brother’s cheek. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bran shakes his head in panic, his eyes widely fixed on Arya. “No, not a ghost. A dragon,” he manages to say in between large gulps of air. “There’s a man outside our walls, riding a huge monstrous dragon, and he… I believe he’s shouting your name, dear sister.”

 

* * *

 

Ned Stark is a practical man. He believes in things like justice and honor and duty, not in silly little things like magic and prophecies and dragons. But there is nothing silly about the creature he is seeing now. 

The dragon is green, as green as summer grass and freshly cut emeralds, with bronze eyes that gleam with a fire of its own, and matching jade and copper scales that shine like pennies when the light hit them just so. And it is huge, so huge that it could decimate entire cities and reduce them to ashes at a moment’s notice, and when it lands in the middle of Winterfell’s courtyard in a great shower of dust and smoke, it sends out vibrations in the earth so deep it is a wonder the surrounding structures do not collapse as a result. 

The first thing that goes through Ned’s mind when he sees the dragon is, _“Is there to be a war?”_ Lately he has been hearing unusual tales surrounding the secluded island of Dragonstone. There are whispers of strange fires and volcanic eruptions going on in various parts of the island, and for a time, he has received several reports of ships going missing as well, only for their charred remains to be found scattered in the deep, churning waters of Blackwater Bay several days later. Travel has also been restricted there, and it is said that only Targaryens and trusted members of the small council have been given access to the castle and its surrounding lands. But now Ned can finally put an end to all those rumors. There are dragons – real live dragons – in the world again. No wonder King Rhaegar is being so secretive about what is happening at Dragonstone. 

Ned watches a tall figure dismount from the dragon with an ease that suggests complete ownership of the creature and thinks, _“Have the Targaryens finally gone mad?”_ For there is no mistaking the silver hair of the man, even at this distance. The rider could only be a Targaryen. At first he thinks it is Rhaegar, but as the man approaches them, he realizes it is his son instead. 

“Lord Stark. Lady Stark,” Aegon Targaryen greets them with all the courtesy and charm of a prince of the realm, looking for all the world as though there is nothing unusual about the situation at all. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for not sending a raven ahead to notify you of my arrival.” 

“Prince Aegon,” Ned Stark manages to say in greeting, his voice a little stiffer than usual. Against his will, his eyes flicker back towards the dragon lying dutifully on the ground several yards away, and though he wants nothing more than to ask about the creature, instead he forces himself to say, “It is no matter. Welcome to Winterfell, my prince.” 

“Thank you. It has been a short but painfully tiring journey. I’m afraid I must impose upon your hospitality, my lord, however sudden and unexpected it may sound.” 

“But of course,” Catelyn Stark replies in her husband’s stead, the forced smile on her lips looking terrible against her blanched skin and petrified wide eyes. “But King’s Landing is a long way from here, and if I may be so bold…” She gives one quick glance at the dragon before continuing. “May I… May I inquire as to the reason you are here, my prince?” 

The prince smiles at them, the brilliance of it making his face even comelier than the rumors have suggested. “Why, I have come to claim my bride, of course.”

 

* * *

  

The ensuing silence stretches for a long time, and as all of Winterfell waits with bated breath for one to break the silence, Arya is struck by the bizarre feeling that they are hovering on the edge of a precipice, and any moment now reality would come crashing down on them with a terrible fury, and the world as they know it would end. 

“Your bride?” she faintly hears her mother say, her words no more than whispers in the wind. 

“Yes, my bride,” Prince Aegon repeats, patiently waiting for them all to understand. 

“Forgive me, Prince Aegon, but… why would your bride be here at Winterfell?” 

The prince chooses to ignore the question. Instead, he takes one step forward, and before Arya knows it, he is standing just in front of her, his smile as warm as the hand he stretches out to grasp hers. “Lady Arya. My Arya,” he declares, staring at her with such unabashed familiarity that Arya feels like her stomach is about to drop. “I have waited a lifetime to claim you, and now that I am here at last, basking in your glorious beauty, I find myself at a loss for words. You have grown into such a beautiful and enchanting woman, you put mere mortals like me into shame.” 

Arya blinks at the prince’s flowery choice of words and frowns. “Pardon me,” she says, looking thoroughly confused. “But… Am I supposed to know you?”

Prince Aegon’s eyes widen in shock as though she has just dealt him with a horrible blow. “You do not recognize me, truly?” he asks her, looking a little miffed. “It’s me, Aegon. You know, your betrothed?” 

“My _what?”_ Arya screeches at the same time her mother and father says, “I beg your pardon?” 

Ned Stark looks at the young prince with dawning horror in his eyes and grips his wife’s hand so tightly he fears it might break, all thoughts of dragons and war now forgotten from his mind. He knows there is nothing good to be gained from a Targaryen suddenly arriving at Winterfell on the back of a dragon, but even in his wildest dreams he had not expected something like this. The revelation of the truth shocks him more than he could ever imagine, and for a while he could do nothing but stare at the prince in stunned disbelief. 

“Prince Aegon,” Arya’s mother addresses their visitor, her voice trembling. “It seems as though we have come to a huge misunderstanding.” 

The prince shakes his head. “No, Lady Stark. There is no misunderstanding,” he tells her quite calmly. “I am to wed your daughter Arya Stark.” 

“Pray forgive me, my prince, but that cannot be possible,” Sansa startles everyone by speaking, her quiet melodious voice a huge contrast to Arya’s indignant screams of protest. She has, up until this moment, chosen not to speak, but whether for fear of the dragon or due to her inability to take her eyes off the charming prince, no one could say. But now that she has chosen to reveal herself, Arya could see that she looks just as confused as everyone else. “My friend Margaery Tyrell says that you are already betrothed.” 

“Yes. Indeed I am,” Prince Aegon replies without pause. “To your sister.” 

“But how… how is that possible?” Catelyn Stark whispers faintly, looking like she is about to collapse. 

Aegon smiles. “Several years ago, I met a little girl in the dungeons of King’s Landing,” he confesses. “She taught me how to be brave and how to be a proper prince, among other things. She was brilliant and funny and fierce, and though I was only a young boy, that very same day, I fell in love with her and asked her if she would do me the honor of marrying me someday. She said yes. And now that she is finally of age, I have come for her.” 

Arya’s reaction is instantaneous. “You’re making this up!” she accuses him, pointing one shaking finger at him. “I don’t care if you’re the bloody prince or the king himself. I did not consent to be married to you. I don’t even know you!” 

“But you do know me,” Aegon insists, capturing her hand and placing it on the area of his chest close to his heart. “Besides, a prince doesn’t lie, remember?” 

His words and his touch trigger something in Arya, and suddenly everything comes back to her in a rush. She remembers crouching down in the shattered remains of a huge dragon skull with a boy with silver hair and eyes the color of deep, velvety wine. She remembers holding his hand in the semi-darkness and listening as he talks to her of dragons and conquerors and warrior queens. She remembers flashes of conversation, whispers of _“When I get my dragons, I shall let you ride them”_ and _“Would you like to be my Visenya, little Arya Stark?”_ She feels the faint outline of a kiss on the back of her hand, but more important than that, she remembers the exact moment when she tells him that she would be his bride. Arya gasps, unprepared for the sudden onslaught of memories. 

Aegon grins at her when he sees the look of utter comprehension and horror on her face. “You remember now, don’t you?” he exclaims with excitement, and without warning, he wraps his arms around her again, heedless of the dumbstruck audience currently watching their every move. 

“You have consented to this marriage, Arya?” The Lord of Winterfell suddenly interrupts their moment, made awkward by the fact that Arya is trying none-too-subtly to push the prince away from her. By the look on Ned Stark’s face, he would have gladly ripped her from the prince’s clutches himself, royal titles and lordships be damned. “How could you agree to something like this without telling me or your mother?” 

Arya looks as her father as though she couldn’t believe he is even asking her that question. “Father, I was only a child when I made that promise! And I did, in fact, tell you. It wasn’t your fault you didn’t believe me.” A choked sound escapes Ned Stark’s throat at those words, but before Arya could dwell on his reaction further, she whirls on Aegon. 

“And you,” she growls at him, blazing fury in her eyes, “You can’t hold my words against me! I was  _six,_ you chauvinistic pig! Shame on you for taking advantage of a little girl and manipulating her into marrying you!” 

The prince gawks at her, looking completely stunned and unprepared for her violent reaction. Apparently, in all his years of fantasizing about this particular reunion, he has forgotten one tiny thing – his betrothed has the unfortunate habit of acting in a manner entirely opposite that of a highborn lady. “I did no such thing!” he cries out in outrage. “Me, take advantage of you? Why, I never! I can’t believe you would even suggest such a thing, my lady! There was no manipulation that occurred. Not if you so clearly agreed to marry me.” 

“Are you daft?” Arya screams back at him. “You can’t seriously expect me to mean what I say when I’m too young to even know what a real marriage means!” 

Prince Aegon looks at her like he is a puppy she has just kicked. “But you promised!” he whines. “Do you think I just propose to anyone I happen to meet? We Targaryens take our marriage proposals very seriously!” 

 _Seven save me,_ Arya thinks to herself. _This stupid prince will be the death of me._ “I don’t care whether you’re serious or not,” she argues, hands on her hips and a stubborn scowl on her face. “Just because I said I’d marry you eight years ago doesn’t mean I’d still be willing to do it now.” 

“But… but…” Aegon sputters. “I brought you your dragon!” He waves a hand towards the huge beast in the distance, who lazily raised his head at them as if in greeting, before tucking it back into his wings and resuming his nap. 

Arya gapes at him. “That’s… that’s _mine?”_  

“Yes. A dragon for your hand in marriage, remember?” Aegon reminds her, then points towards the dragon again. “That right there is Rhaegal, named in honor of my father. He’s beautiful, isn’t he? I trained him just for you. There are only three dragons left now in the world, and one of them is yours, if you would have him. Look at him. He is a dragon worthy for a Targaryen bride.” 

Arya stares at the direction he has pointed, and for once, she is completely at a loss for words. Ever since she had been a child, she had dreamed of owning one of these magnificent creatures for her to ride. Too many times she’d fantasize of flying away from her bedroom window and seeing the world through a different medium. And now she is being given that opportunity by a foolish prince who professes to like her even though she has done nothing but treat him with disrespect ever since he got here. 

Aegon Targaryen offers her his hand again, and in his open palm she sees the hint of a promise. “How about it? For the second time, I shall ask you again. Would you be my Visenya, Arya Stark?” 

 

* * *

  

“Would you all kindly stop blocking my door so I can leave?” Arya says in a voice that sounds anything but kind. She stares at her siblings who are mutinously clustered around the door to her chambers like a pack of hungry wolves and sighs in frustration. They have been at this for what seems like hours now, but still they refuse to budge. At first they had done nothing but look at her with wide and amazed eyes, as though she is some new and fascinating creature they had never seen before, but as Arya’s half-mad ramblings wore on, the expression on their faces changed from wonder to determination. 

Sansa Stark stubbornly shakes her head and informs her sister, “No, we shan’t let you leave. As your siblings, we have a duty to ensure that you won’t ruin the one chance you might have at happiness.” 

Arya laughs at that. “Can you even hear how ridiculous you sound, Sansa?” she asks her. “ _My_ happiness? What would you know of my happiness?” 

“Oh, don’t be such a pest,” Sansa scolds her, hitting Arya lightly on her shoulder with the edge of her fan. Then changing the subject, she says, “I can’t believe you and the prince are…” She abruptly trails off and sighs. “All those years I’ve teased you for making up stories about him, about you and your ragged little butcher’s boy… Oh, I’ve been mercilessly cruel to you, sister, and all this time you were actually telling the truth. I can’t even begin to tell you how wretched I feel.” 

“It’s a pity I spent the majority of my life forgetting about my encounter with him,” Arya states with a shrug. “Otherwise I would have taken great pleasure in saying ‘ _I told you so’.”_  

Sansa ignores her comment and stares at her with a mixture of envy and admiration. “I can’t believe you got your first marriage proposal when you were six!” she gushes. “Imagine that, Prince Aegon himself trying to woo you? He even called you his Visenya! How terribly romantic! Your story is just like the ones in the songs, only it is even better.” 

Arya scoffs, amazed at the depth of her sister’s delusions. “There is nothing romantic about that!” she protests loudly. “Yes, so he did call me his Visenya. But you know what that means, don’t you? He’s basically saying he wants me as part of his harem!” 

“He said nothing of the sort!” Sansa argues back indignantly, looking horrified at the suggestion. 

“Oh, yes. Because we all know Aegon the Conqueror had no wife other than Visenya Targaryen,” Arya responds sarcastically. 

“Calm down, you two,” Robb interjects, placing both hands on either of his sisters’ shoulders in a soothing gesture. 

“But she started it!” 

Robb raises an eyebrow at her. “Come now, Arya. Is that the way the future Queen of Westeros is supposed to act?” he teases her, unable to hide the huge grin on his face. “Oh, wait till Jon hears about this.” 

Arya elbows him hard in the stomach. “Don’t you start teasing me too,” she says darkly. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to act like my protective, big brother whose sole duty it is to defend me from those seeking to ruin my virtue?” 

Said brother only shakes his head at her in amusement. “Arya, you flatter me by thinking of me as a brave man worthy enough to defend your honor,” he tells her. “But have you seen the size of Aegon Targaryen’s dragon? To pick a fight with someone who owns such a creature would be nothing short of suicidal, and I assure you, dear sister, I’ve no plans to tempt fate as of yet.” 

Arya mutters something about uncooperative brothers and scowls. “Suit yourself then,” she says. “It doesn’t matter anyway because I refuse to be his bride.” 

“And why not?” This time it is Bran who presents his case. He looks at her with wise blue eyes and smiles. “You won’t find a better match than him. You know I’m right.” 

“I don’t need to find a better match than him,” Arya corrects him with a roll of her eyes, “Because I’m not going to marry anyone.” 

“Tell that to Father,” Robb says with a snort. 

Arya looks at him sharply for clarification, but it is Bran who answers her. “I heard he and Mother are already making plans to marry you off to a Frey. Remember that cowardly whelp of a boy you gave mud pies to? That’s the one. In fact, the reason he visited Winterfell in the first place is because of you,” he informs her. Arya sends him a look, to which he only shrugs and says, “I’m not lying to you. I swear it on the old gods. And don’t ask me how I know. I just… you know, _know_ things.” 

And it is true. Her brother, whether it is because of his sensitive nature or because of his proclivity to climb hidden places where he could easily eavesdrop in on various conversations undetected, is gifted with the uncanny ability to know certain things, things that even Arya and the rest of her siblings are not privy to. So when he tells her that her parents are thinking of marrying her off to a disgusting rat named Elmar Frey, she immediately believes him. 

Arya shudders at the idea of being bound to life to such a creature. “I think I would rather die than marry a Frey,” she declares with newfound passion. “Really, whatever was Mother and Father thinking?” 

Robb nods at her in understanding. “So if I were you, darling sister, I’d count yourself lucky and marry the dragon prince instead,” he advises her. 

“But… but he’s a prince!” Arya objects, going right to the heart of the matter. 

“Precisely. He’s a handsome prince,” Sansa chimes in, wondering how her sister could fail to see how fortunate she is when it comes to her choice of husbands. As far as husbands go, Aegon Targaryen is the best one there is. He is a prince destined to rule the realm one day, he has dragons, and most importantly, he loves her sister with a fierce passion Sansa has only heard about in songs. Knowing Arya though, she would rather run away with a sellsword or a stableboy than marry someone with royal blood. 

But fortunately for her and the rest of the entire Stark clan, it is Rickon, adorable little Rickon who inherited Robb’s sharp mind and Sansa’s angelic looks, but who is in fact more alike to Arya in temperament than any of their other siblings, who ultimately convinces her. He looks at his fellow wolf sister in exasperation and says, “He has a dragon, Arya” as though it makes all the difference in the world. And in this case, it just might be. 

“A _dragon_ ,” he repeats, amazed by that fact but at the same time annoyed that his sister is taking such a long time to arrive to a conclusion that is so obvious even to him. “Maester Luwin says there haven’t been dragons for hundreds of years, but now there are three, and one of them could be yours. So you have to marry him, Arya. You have to. Besides, you can always kill him after your wedding if you want to. Don’t worry, we won’t tell Mother and Father.” 

 

 

* * *

 

Arya marches resolutely towards Aegon like a soldier going to battle, her shoulders squared, her face a hard mask. But when she sees him, she stops in her tracks and something in her expression shifts. He is lying on the ground, laughing as Nymeria playfully wags her tail and licks him on the face, and there is something about the innocent expression on his face that tugs at her, and without meaning to, she finds herself unable to look away. She stares at him – at the glimpse of the boy she had befriended in a room full of skulls all those years ago, the boy who told her stories and held her hand in the dark, the boy who offered her a dragon in exchange for her heart – and thinks, _Maybe this won’t be so bad after all._

“Prince Aegon,” she greets him. She clears her throat and watches his face light up at the sight of her. “Thank you for waiting for me.” 

The prince smiles at her, looking amused at her suddenly polite attitude. “I have waited eight years to claim you, Arya Stark, so I hardly think a few hours more would make much of a difference,” he tells her. 

Arya frowns at that. “You are a strange man, Aegon Targaryen,” she says. “But… I would marry you.” 

Aegon blinks in surprise and takes a moment before he completely loses his composure. “Yes! I’m marrying Arya Stark!” he shouts to the rooftops, grinning like a crazed fool who has just found hidden treasure in the desert. 

“Wait, I’m not done yet,” Arya tells him hurriedly, clamping her hand around his mouth to stop him from his incessant shouting. “I have terms.” 

Aegon only laughs at her. “Yes, Arya. I will not forbid you from practicing your swordplay. I will allow you to wear breeches from time to time, even if the whole of Westeros hates me for it. I will forbid you from doing needlework. I will listen to your council at all times,” he recites, the corners of his mouth stretching into a permanent grin. “Hmm. Let’s see, have I forgotten anything else?” 

The incredulous look Arya sends him only makes him laugh even harder. “Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he informs her. “If I wanted to marry a proper lady, I would have chosen someone else.” 

She narrows her eyes at him and says instead, “One last thing, my prince.” 

“What is it?” 

Arya smiles at him then, the kind of smile a viper makes right before it strikes its prey, and sweetly says, “If you take another woman as your wife, and yes, that includes your beloved sister Rhaenys, Westeros would suddenly find itself without its rightful future king. And that would be such a pity, wouldn’t it?”

 

* * *

  

Ned Stark stares at Aegon Targaryen, who is happily trying to teach his daughter the finer points of dragon command (somehow he isn’t surprised that the first command Arya wants to learn is _“Dracarys”)_ , and sighs in resignation. “Is there truly nothing we can do to salvage the situation?” he asks his wife, who is standing beside him with both hands wrapped around his arm, watching the scene unfold before them with guarded eyes. “Perhaps we can write to King Rhaegar?” 

Catelyn Stark shakes her head. “You heard the prince, Ned,” she reminds her husband gently. “The king was already made aware of the betrothal the moment our party left for King’s Landing when Arya was just a child. In fact, I daresay he is already busy at the capital, planning the greatest wedding in the history of Westeros.” 

Ned lets out a disgruntled noise at that thought and scowls. King Rhaegar is a competent ruler, a thousand times better than the Mad King who ruled before him, but though he does not outright hate the man, he does not like him either. Given his whole affair with Lyanna and everything else that followed after that, who can truly blame him? And now Rhaegar’s very own offspring is stealing yet another member of his family. The gods must be laughing at him. 

No wonder no one wants to marry Arya. Since the moment she had turned one-and-ten, they had tried to find a suitable match for her, with candidates ranging from Edric Dayne from Starfall to Trystane Martell from Dorne, but for some reason, all they received were polite letters of refusal. Things had gotten so desperate that Catelyn finally suggested one day that they write to old Lord Walder Frey himself, but even then Ned knew he could never give her away to one of Lord Frey’s grandchildren. And now he finally understands why. The entire kingdom already knows that Aegon Targaryen is engaged to his daughter, save for House Stark itself. Perhaps Rhaegar is smarter than Ned gives him credit for. 

Catelyn shifts beside him and looks at him despairingly. “Are we such terrible parents, Ned?” she asks him. “I remember those times when we were at the Red Keep and Arya would come running towards me to tell me about her adventures with a boy she claims to be Prince Aegon. She would tell me repeatedly about her vows to marry him, about the dragon he has promised her, but in return for her honesty, all I did was punish her. Imagine that, Ned! Our very own child, discredited by none other than myself. I always knew Arya had a hyperactive imagination, but I suppose a part of me had believed that if anyone were to catch the prince’s eye, it would be Sansa. And now that the truth is revealed, I feel so foolish.” 

Ned returns his wife’s gaze, uncertain as to how best to comfort her when he himself is feeling at a loss for words, but at that precise moment, Sansa sidles up to them, a bright smile on her face. “Mother, Father,” she remarks when she sees their miserable expressions. “Truly, you mustn’t feel so glum. Everything has worked out for the best. You shall see.” 

Her father wearily runs a hand through his hair, the wrinkles on his forehead becoming even more pronounced than ever. “Dear child, if only I could share your enthusiasm,” he says. “But unfortunately, I fail to see how your sister being betrothed to a man foolish enough to give her a potential weapon for mass destruction could be cause enough for celebration.” 

Sansa gives a short, lady-like laugh. “Oh, Father, why must you be so shocked?” she tells him teasingly. “Haven’t you learned by now? Bizarre things always happen when my sister is involved.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it, folks. Not gonna lie, I'm a bit nervous about this one :S 
> 
> At first I wanted to do the whole "Arya and Aegon writing to each other and shocking everyone by getting married in the future" thing, but then, I realized that it would be more in-character for Arya to act this way. Because, you know, she's the kind of woman who would make things difficult for a potential suitor and that's part of why I love her.


End file.
